


with a cherry on top

by cloudings



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bathroom Sex, Boxing Day, Christmas, Drinking, Drunk Sex, Fighting Kink, Firewhiskey (Harry Potter), Hate Sex, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, One Shot, Public Sex, Smut, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:27:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28330881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudings/pseuds/cloudings
Summary: Harry didn’t think that he’d ever heard Draco Malfoy be polite in his entire life. He was bloody well sure that he’d never be able to get used to it if he actually did hear him say the word please.That doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to try.Harry and Draco have drunk hate sex in the bathroom of The Hog’s Head.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 335





	with a cherry on top

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all had a lovely Christmas!

Harry didn’t think that he’d ever heard Draco Malfoy be polite in his entire life. He was bloody well sure that he’d never be able to get used to it if he _did_ hear him say the word please.

Take when Harry was sat in class, for example. Malfoy would regard him with little courtesy. Perhaps the smallest amount of courtesy actually possible. 

“Pass me that ink,” he’d demand, and Harry would do so begrudgingly.

“You’re welcome,” he would make a point to say. 

Or when they were sat at the Eighth year table, and there was such a small amount of them that they were forced to sit in a proximity that seemed designed to squish them all far too tightly together. 

“Pass the salt, Potter,” he would say, as if he did it on purpose just to annoy him. 

“You’re welcome,” he would say back again when he gave in and gave him the salt. 

It felt as if it was becoming a personal attack on Harry. Nobody else seemed to notice nor care when Malfoy made a request of somebody, for something like ink or salt. But it was just _rude._ And there Harry had been, thinking that Purebloods were supposed to be well-mannered.

“He’s such a prat,” Harry said one evening, making a feather from his pillow float across his dorm room. “Seriously. I don’t understand it.”

“I don’t get why you’re getting so worked up about it, Harry,” Seamus replied to him, a chuckle rising through his voice. “‘S just Malfoy, isn’t it? He’s always been like that. Prick.”

“Just Malfoy. Yeah. Anyone would think that he’d be sucking up to us.” Harry rolled his eyes, twitching his fingers so that the feather would fly towards the window. “It’s not as if I don’t mention it. He knows what he’s doing. I’m telling you. He’s doing it all on purpose.”

“Better than getting the Dark Arts involved again, though, eh?” Seamus smirked at him, and Harry wasn’t sure whether that entertained him or enraged him further. 

Harry lay back in his bed and allowed the feather to hover over his face. His eyes strayed over the pretty white ridges and pointy edges of each stroke. He adjusted his head when he remembered that there were dozens, perhaps hundreds of these feathers underneath his mop of hair right now. 

He heard the door to the room open and shut again, but Harry didn’t need to turn at all to know who had made an appearance. The shift of the atmosphere from Seamus and Justin Finch-Fletchley told him enough. His jaw clenched at the mere thought of the rude sod. 

He listened closely to the man’s movements, each footstep counted until he arrived at the bed that was (unfortunately) next to Harry’s. He sat down, and cast a few quiet spells that Harry recognised to be silencing charms. He propped his head up with his arm behind him, and frowned at the look on Justin’s face. He seemed utterly out of it, gazing at Malfoy as if he were a treacle tart. 

Maybe he had a treacle tart, Harry wondered, but he hadn’t smelled anything, and he was normally very good at distinguishing between treacle tarts and no treacle tarts at all. In fact, he was excellent, and he was sure that Malfoy did _not_ have any treacle tarts with him. 

As he listened to Malfoy settle down into bed, he clicked his fingers and allowed the feather to float down onto his chest, swaying from side to side in the air as he watched. It was still pretty when it was laid down, he found, and Harry smiled despite himself as he picked it up and spun it around between the pads of his fingers. 

“I hate to think what you plan on doing with that feather, Potter,” Malfoy quipped annoyingly. “You’re gazing at it as if it were the moon.”

“Shut the fuck up, Malfoy,” Harry responded, his smile quickly erased from his face. He settled the feather onto his bedside table. He removed his glasses from his face and set them down alongside the feather, the scene of them blurry as he got himself comfortable, facing his body away from Malfoy’s bed.

He went to sleep that night completely and utterly pissed off.

*

“Justin, pass me my shirt.”

Harry frowned as he reached over to his bedside table and placed his glasses onto his face. “Please,” he said.

“What?” Malfoy scoffed. 

Justin threw him his shirt anyway, red faced, obviously trying not to stare at Malfoy until he had finally pulled on said shirt. “It’s alright, Harry,” he said. “No worries.”

Harry rolled his eyes. If he had a knut for every time Justin excused Malfoy’s bad manners just because he wanted to fuck him, Harry would be able to buy Malfoy Manor. 

“It’s really not that hard to be polite,” Harry said as he swung his legs over the side of his bed and tried to run a hand through his messy sweep of hair. 

“It’s really not that hard to mind your own business,” Malfoy replied. “I’m surprised you know any etiquette at all, considering you grew up in… What was it, Potter?” He grinned, picking up the same copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that he had been quoting all year so far. “Grew up in a cupboard under the stairs? At least that explains a lot.”

“Oi,” Seamus warned him.

“I’m just joking, Potter,” he said as he ran his hand over the _Prophet,_ clearing it of any wrinkles or creases. “Everybody knows that if you were to lose your sense of manners anywhere, it would have been staying with those Weasleys.”

Harry had picked up his wand and had it pointed at Malfoy’s neck before he was even aware of himself. Malfoy dropped the _Prophet_ and stepped backwards as if to struggle to get away, only to be stopped by his legs hitting the back of his bed. He swayed on his feet as his face constricted with panic and Harry wasn’t quite sure when he had gripped the front of his shirt in his fist to keep him upright either.

“Shut the fuck up,” Harry whispered to him, “about Ron’s family. That’s not a request, Malfoy.”

“Oh,” Malfoy said quietly. His eyes looked rather glazed. “Then what is it, Potter?”

“Boys,” Seamus said wearily. “Come on, now. Harry, put down your wand.”

“Yes, put down your wand.”

Harry tightened his grip on both shirt and wand. He could feel his heart racing, his chest heaving beneath his shirt, and Malfoy’s doing the same under his fist. He stared fixedly at the Slytherin’s face, willing to see more fear in his expression, more reluctance. All he saw there was daring.

Harry dropped him onto the bed and walked determinedly back to his own, each step taken with deliberate weight as he picked up his bag and strode out of the room, ignoring the twat’s call of “Happy Boxing Day, Potter!”

*

“I reckon you bludgeon him, I do,” Ron suggested, kicking some snow out from under his feet. “Him and bloody Finch-Fletchley.”

“Justin didn’t do anything wrong,” Hermione said from beneath his arm. “And as horrible as his comments are, Malfoy doesn’t deserve to be _bludgeoned._ Honestly, Ron.”

Harry scoffed, twirling his wand in his fingers. “He deserves something. I damn near cursed him earlier.”

“Just because of his lack of manners? Harry,” she huffed. “That isn’t exactly something _new_! What on earth has gotten into you?”

“Malfoy,” he groaned, anxious to get the thought of the man pushed out of his mind by the Three Broomsticks, which they were quickly approaching. “Malfoy has gotten into me, alright? I mean —” He rolled his eyes at Ron’s subsequent snort “— He’s just getting under my skin.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, pulling open the door to the pub and holding it open for the boys. “He seems to be an expert.”

Harry exchanged a look with Ron, who shrugged and took hold of Hermione’s hand before heading over to the table already seating Dean, Seamus and Luna. A firewhisky (or two, or three) and good company was what he needed at the moment. 

Then he sat down next to Seamus, and thought that the _good_ in good company had gone out of the window. 

“Hiya, Harry.” He smirked, elbowing him in the ribs. “You calmed down yet, you weirdo?”

“Oh, shut up,” he said. “You can’t tell me that he doesn’t get on your last nerve as well.”

Luna looked between the two of them, tilting her head with interest. “Who are we talking about?”

“Malfoy. Harry went crazy on him this morning,” Seamus told her, and then turned to Ron and Hermione. “Have you two heard about this?”

“Nothing but,” Hermione sighed. “Honestly, Harry, if Malfoy hasn’t learnt how to be decent in his eighteen years of life already, he never will. I’m getting you a firewhisky.”

Harry slumped down in his seat as he watched her and Ron head to the bar to order. He understood, he just couldn’t fathom the fact that he was the only person that seemed to be annoyed with it. How many times had he saved Malfoy’s arse, now? And the bugger couldn’t even be bothered to say please when asking for things. Harry didn’t think that he looked like a House Elf, and he didn’t think that any of his friends or classmates did either. 

His first firewhisky didn’t hit him. On the second one, he felt his head begin to spin. On the third, he felt his mouth become loose. On his fourth, he almost pissed himself laughing when Dean spilled his seventh over his lap. 

After his fifth, Rosmerta kindly (and very firmly) suggested that they’d all had quite enough, and to get out of her pub before they ended up knocking all of her tables over. 

And so they made their way down the street and Ron kicked open the door to the Hog’s Head, merrily calling, “Aberforth! Happy Boxing Day! How the devil are you, my man?”

“Merry fucking Christmas, you bunch of rowdy bastards. Sit down and stay down, or you’re out.” 

Luna hurried forwards and gave him a hug before she followed the others to sit down, swaying as she walked. Harry watched him roll his eyes, and how he was not able to resist a small smile tugging at his lips beneath his bushy beard. 

“Abby,” Seamus slurred. “Twelve shots of firewhisky over here, please!”

Harry choked on his laugh and dropped his head into his hands. Aberforth shuffled behind the bar and told him, “And that would normally be three galleons in all, but ‘cause your scrawny ass called me _Abby,_ it’ll be four.”

A chorus of groans and an understanding nod from Luna followed suit. They paid up and each got their two shots, clinking their first ones together in a cheers before knocking them back, Harry loving the burn down his throat. 

He felt _warm._

And then he felt another nudge at his ribs. 

“Harry,” Seamus whispered, nodding towards the far corner of the bar once he’d caught his attention. “Don’t look now.”

“How long has he been here?” he groaned, his vision only just clear enough to make out Malfoy accompanied by Zabini and Parkinson. “He - He exists to _haunt me._ ”

“Harry,” Dean said, and there was something about Dean that calmed him a little bit — something that he may have been able to focus on more closely if he weren’t so utterly distracted by Draco bloody Malfoy.

Malfoy seemed to sense that somebody was watching him. He turned his head as he sipped his glass of… something. Harry didn’t know what it was, only that it was purple, glitter shimmering through it, and he looked damn good whilst he did it. 

He took another gulp as he held eye contact with Harry. Malfoy looked away first and Harry’s gaze remained on him, watching closely as Malfoy turned to Zabini and said to him, “Let me try some of your drink.”

“Tosser,” Harry said, not trying to lower his voice. He turned to Hermione and Ron beside him and groaned, “Do you not see what I mean?”

Hermione’s head turned very slowly, and she hiccoughed before asking, “Did you say something, Harry?” and quickly jumping in her seat, blushing red and squeaking, “Ronald!”

Harry turned instead to Luna and said to her, “You see what I mean?”

“I’m sorry, Harry?” she hummed. “Are you referring to Draco Malfoy again? You really do talk about him a lot. I don’t think he’s terribly impolite. He smiles at me when he walks past me.”

Harry continued to watch him from across the bar, continued to watch him drink his mysterious drink and occasionally take some of Zabini’s, or Parkinson’s, always without even asking. It made Harry’s teeth grind. Made his blood boil. His blood, which was currently at about 99% alcohol content.

“Look at him…” he mumbled to himself, which was rather useless, since he seemed to be doing nothing but. “Fucking… Malfoy… I just don’t get it.” 

He took his second shot before the others did. He needed it. As he shook his head to rid himself of the horrid taste, he realised that he might need another one, as well. The bar looked just as alluring as the idea of teaching Malfoy some manners. 

He pushed himself up and waved away any concern from Dean and Seamus as he swayed on his feet. “I’m fine,” he said calmly. “Just… You know… Bar.”

Seamus nodded wistfully and said in return, “Bar!” whilst Dean leant on his hand, ignoring Harry in favour of staring at their Irish friend. 

“Aberforth!” Harry called, a grin spread over his warm face. Aberforth raised an eyebrow at him as he cleaned out a glass, and Harry held onto the wooden bar for support. “Mr. Dumbledore, sir. Aberforth. Could I please request a… A, uh…”

“I think you could do with a butterbeer, son,” Aberforth told him, and began to pour it even before Harry nodded his approval. He turned his back on him as he listened to the sound of liquid filling the glass. He eyed the table hosting the Slytherins yet again, saw Malfoy stick up his middle finger at Parkinson before standing up abruptly and leaving the table without saying anything. 

He looked towards Harry once before pushing open the door to the men’s toilets and walking inside. 

Harry bit his lip. 

“Hold the butterbeer, please,” he said. “I have to… I have to piss. I’ll be right back.”

He hurried to the bathroom, hoping in some part of his mind that was actually coherent that neither his friends or the Slytherins caught sight of why he was going in there. 

He knew how it looked. 

He remembered the last time they were in a bathroom together. 

These toilets were certainly not up to Hogwarts standard. Harry knew the type of people who came into the Hog’s Head on a regular basis, but he would have thought that for that reason, Aberforth would have cleaned them all the more regularly. 

Malfoy clearly thought the same. He was standing opposite one of the cubicles, staring into it as if it was infested with dragon (or goat) dung, and really, Harry thought, it couldn’t be that far off. Miraculously, the room smelled alright, though he couldn’t even begin to imagine how, considering that there wasn’t even a window in there to ventilate the place. This meant it was dark, though, and dingy at that, the only illumination in the room coming from the flickering candles either side of the moldy mirrors over the sinks. Through it, he still managed to notice that his cheeks were tinted with a drunken red glow.

“Potter,” Malfoy said, finally noticing him once the door shut with a bang. He regarded Harry with near enough the same expression as he did the toilet. “I really wouldn’t recommend relieving yourself in this place. I’d sooner go in the snow.”

Harry agreed with him. He agreed one-hundred-percent, but still he said, “Not good enough for you, Malfoy?”

Their speech was both slurred. Slower than usual. Harry could tell that Malfoy was drunk, maybe just as much as he was himself, and was planning to speak his mind to him whilst he was. He took one step forward and stumbled a little, and instead of smirking like he usually would have done, a condescending and rude look upon his face, Malfoy _giggled._ He _giggled._

“Why, I suppose I should have assumed you— you’re used to this,” he said from behind the softly curled fist at his mouth. It hid his smile and made Harry’s eyes narrow more than the sentence he spoke did. He didn’t know why. 

“Shut up,” he demanded, though he knew that he didn’t exactly sound as authoritative as he would have liked at that moment. “I have my… I have my wand.”

“That’s not very polite, is it? Telling me to shut up?” The man frowned. 

Harry’s eyes widened with disbelief. “ _I’m_ impolite? Me?”

Malfoy toyed with his bottom lip. “The cupboard side is showing again.” He shook his head slowly. “Tut, tut, t—”

Harry approached him quickly, somehow all without tripping over his own feet, and grabbed him by the shirt the same way that he had done that morning. He could smell both the firewhisky and whatever Malfoy had been drinking, their breath hot and mingled in between their faces. Malfoy’s breathing had sped up. Harry could once again feel the pounding of his heart beneath his fist. 

“Let go of me,” Malfoy said, a defiant but satisfied look in his eye — as if he was getting just what he wanted. 

“Do you even _know_ the word _please_ exists?” 

“Of course I do. I have had classes on etiquette since I was four years old. I’m surprised you’re even familiar with how humans talk to one another when they’re not in a shed.”

Harry’s jaw tensed. He saw Malfoy’s eyes drop to it and then watched his Adam’s apple bob, watched some daring slip into those grey eyes of his. He pressed onwards, fast enough that somehow the two of them stayed upright, at least until Harry had Malfoy up against the wall, pinned there with his fist still at his chest. 

Their heavy breathing was the only sound that filled the room aside from inconsistent dripping from one of the old taps. 

“I said,” Malfoy huffed. “Let _go_ of me.” 

And then Harry’s back was against the wall instead, and he’d banged his head a little but he still knew where and who he was, and what was happening was somewhere in there too, and the fact that they were both far too pissed out of their minds to fight seemed to be insignificant.

Malfoy’s forearm pressed against Harry’s chest and he used his damned height to his advantage, pressing down upon Harry so he could barely move an inch. Somewhere, in the blurry fog of his mind, he was nearly impressed. For a skinny looking bloke…

“You’re a fucking bastard, Malfoy.”

“And you are an insufferable brute with a hero-complex,” Malfoy sneered, though his face was still flushed red with intoxication, and his stutter on the last few words, though not making Harry any less angry at him, did make Harry take him a little less seriously. 

“This _brute,_ ” Harry began, head beginning to hurt from how furrowed his brows were, “is at least a nice person to fucking _be around!_ ”

And he kicked Malfoy in the shin, hurrying in the moment that he was taken off-guard to switch their positions one more time. He grabbed both of the man’s wrists and pinned them against the wall either side of his head. He pressed their legs together closely so that he could not move them, could not perform the same trick on Harry as Harry had done upon him, and then they were chest to chest, able to feel the pounding of each other’s hearts. 

Malfoy stared at him right in his eyes and spat, “Fuck you, Potter.”

And he’d later wonder what exactly was the trigger for doing it; the phrasing, the proximity, the beer-goggles, perhaps all rolled up into one. 

Harry shut his eyes and smashed their lips together. He would never have believed that reciprocation at such a speed was possible until that moment. 

Malfoy’s mouth moved with such ferocity and passion that Harry’s drunken mind convinced itself for a moment that perhaps he would melt from the sheer heat of it. He tasted like how the drink smelled, like blueberries and vodka and presumably some kind of magical ingredient that gave it the shine and sparkle that it had, and Harry couldn’t get enough of it. Their teeth smashed against one another before Harry pushed his tongue through and got a proper taste, sliding his against Malfoy’s and giving him a taste of his firewhisky as well. 

Never before had he kissed or been kissed like this. Never before had it been a sort of _war,_ an arousing and angry battle that made Harry’s knees weak, that sent blood down to his cock so quickly that he felt even more light-headed than the alcohol had made him. He could feel heat and pressure pooling in his abdomen and without thinking, Harry slotted his leg between Malfoy’s, aching for some sort of sign that they were at least near the same boat. 

And they definitely were. The raw sound that escaped Malfoy’s throat and got swallowed by Harry’s lips was more than enough to make Harry achieve one-hundred percent hardness, and he was sure to let Malfoy know. He rolled his hips forward and thrust himself upon Malfoy’s thigh just once, letting him feel it, giving him a chance to do the same in return. The man whined once again, a tremor shooting through his body and shaking Harry as well as he pressed his own arousal against Harry’s hip, long and powerfully hard. 

Harry’s firewhisky-laden brain screamed at him when he pulled out of the kiss that seemed to feel better than coming back to life, but it also had _plans._ Malfoy’s eyes were clouded and hooded as Harry pulled out of the kiss, but his lips were red-raw and swollen, and Harry knew he had to speak and act before Malfoy snapped at him to ask him why he stopped, because then Harry would start second guessing himself, as well.

“You’re such an entitled twat,” Harry told him, and then purposely waited until there was anger in his eyes again before he let go of Malfoy’s right wrist and pushed his head to the side using his newly-freed hand. Malfoy had his own fingers buried within Harry’s curls within seconds after Harry threw his lips at Malfoy’s neck, sucking a large red mark right onto the clearly visible skin, already fantasising about what it would look like when it turned purple. 

Malfoy was already huffing gasps at the sensation on his neck and the pressure of Harry’s hip on his crotch _before_ Harry utilised his hand yet again, this time sliding down Malfoy’s torso between them both until he got to the dent in his trousers. He finished sucking at his neck and leant back to admire his handiwork as he cupped Malfoy’s erection through the entirely unnecessary clothing. 

Harry was pulled into another bruising kiss by the hand in his hair and some part of Harry’s mind celebrated the fact that Malfoy daren’t even have insulted him back for want of kissing him instead, for the need to get his lips on his and his tongue inside his mouth again, dirty and right. 

Harry continued to fondle Malfoy’s crotch as they kissed and made sure not to entirely forget himself in the process, rolling his hips towards Malfoy and practically humping his thigh like a dog. Not that Malfoy seemed to mind at all, in fact disregarding the need for breath and instead taking all opportunities he had between kisses to whisper _yes, yes,_ over and over again. Like music to Harry’s goddamn ears. 

“Fuck,” Harry panted, pulling away after what seemed like an eternity and a second all at once. “Let me fuck you. Please, God, let me fuck you, Malfoy.” 

Malfoy’s body shook at the words and Harry was able to literally feel his (in fact, both of their) erection(s) jump with excitement at the prospect. He nodded with such a vigour that Harry had not seen before and released Harry’s hair from his clasp, instead reaching down between them to undo his own trousers and push them, and his underwear, down to his knees. 

Harry was so taken with the sudden appearance of such a lovely erection before him that he momentarily forgot not just how to act like a normal human being, but also how to breathe, it seemed. It wasn’t until Malfoy pressed another hard kiss to his mouth that Harry remembered who he even was, and finally released Malfoy’s other wrist from the wall to grab Malfoy’s cock with one hand and undo his own trousers with the other. 

“Do the fucking spells,” Malfoy demanded of him, inching his legs apart. “I swear to Salazar, Potter, if you don’t fuck me within the next ten seconds, then I’ll—”

Harry grabbed him by the waist and spun him around, then placed one hand on the back of his head, shoving his cheek against the wall. The other hand retrieved his wand from inside the pocket of his jeans, significantly baggier now undone, and within a second he was waving it with several correct incantations. 

But still, he couldn’t help himself. 

“Or what, Malfoy?” he asked, his lips brushing the shell of Malfoy’s ear. “Fuck you right now, or what? What’ll you do?”

“I’ll —” he began. He cleared his throat. Harry watched his arms; one hand inched lower and lower to his cock as the other stayed firmly on the wall, fingers bent as if to clutch at something. “You better fuck me, or I’ll —”

“Say please,” Harry interjected. He heard a sharp intake of breath and placed a long kiss to the back of his neck. He grabbed hold of his own cock, wet now, lubed and ready, and slid it up and down the crease of Malfoy’s ass. “I’m not fucking you until you say please, Malfoy.” 

“You’re a foul fucking knob, Harry Potter,” he told him, each word breathy and strangled. “Come on, fuck me, do it already, you utter shit!”

“Funny way of saying please, _Draco Malfoy._ ‘Knew someone had to teach you some manners.” Harry slid his hand out of Malfoy’s hair and placed it instead upon his ass, digging his fingers into the soft flesh for a moment, squeezing his cheek, before whispering another incantation and pressing his middle finger inside of his ass, an easy feat thanks to the preparation spells. “Until you’re ready, you just get fingers.”

“Fuck,” Malfoy cursed, trying to rock back onto his fingers, still holding onto his cock all the whole.

“Say it.”

Malfoy only whimpered. 

“Say it,” Harry repeated.

“Your dick, Potter… I want it…”

Harry pressed his finger in deeper. “You want what?”

“Y— Your dick in me, for fuck sake —!”

“One word, Malfoy, and you’ll have all of it,” Harry told him. He withdrew his finger now and instead pressed the head of his cock against Malfoy’s hole, pushing forwards ever so slightly. He leant close to Malfoy’s ear again, and said to him once more, “One word.”

He saw Malfoy’s eyes squeeze shut, and knew he’d won. 

“Please!” he groaned, and one arm reached back at an awkward angle to bury his fingers in Harry’s hair behind him again. “Merlin, Potter, please just _fuck me._ ”

Harry grinned, and thrust his hips forward at once, sheathing himself in the hot, tight heaven; a heaven that made his jaw drop and his own eyes squint, that impacted upon his breathing even more so than it was already hindered. Maybe it was the anger, maybe the alcohol, but being inside somebody had never felt like _this._

He continued pushing forwards, pushing inside of Malfoy until he bottomed out, leaning backwards slightly so that he could watch the entrance, watch each second as he sank, inch by inch into a place that he’d never thought it possible to go. 

“ _Fuck,_ ” the two of them moaned, almost exactly the same time, and Malfoy’s head turned ever so slightly closer to Harry. 

“This feels fucking amazing,” Harry breathed, securing himself with one grip on Malfoy’s hip. “God, Malfoy, your ass is fucking insane.”

“I hate you so much,” was the reply, and then, immediately, “Will you just fucking — Will you _please_ just fucking _move_ and _fuck_ me, already?” 

And Harry needn’t be told twice. 

Especially not with that word. 

He pulled out a few inches before shoving himself back in, a crude slap of their skin echoing throughout the bathroom, and Harry had not thought of the people outside that unlocked door in what felt like an age, but could not bring himself to care about whether they knew what was going on in here, whether they could hear them or not. 

How could Harry care about anything else on the planet when he was fucking Draco Malfoy in the ass? How could Harry expect to remember that anyone, or anything, else even existed when he had Draco Malfoy pinned against the wall and taking his dick like a bitch, like an expert? Moaning and panting with every single thrust and barely closing his mouth at all. Spilling saliva over his lips in a way that was not disgusting but rather all the more arousing. Blinking rapidly or not at all until his eyes remained a permanent state of half-mast, both of his eyeballs rolled backwards with ecstasy. 

And let Harry not get started on his cock. As Harry thrust into him — _again_ , and _again,_ and _again —_ he could see it twitching as he looked down over his shoulder. He could see white heading at the tip, twinkling and reflecting the light of the flickering candles by the sinks. 

Harry had about a billion things to say all wrapped up in his mind. He interchanged between faster and slower in his thrusts, all the while thinking of telling the man he was with that it didn’t matter one bit how they did this, that it would be perfect regardless. That it was still perfect now, even though they wanted to brawl as much as they wanted this. It was a good alternative, Harry thought, and wondered whether they could have always been doing this. He wondered whether this would happen again, the next time the two of them got into an inevitable fight. He wondered if they would even bring this up again once it was over, or if Malfoy would just revert back to his rudeness and maybe even use this against him.

But then he told himself to shut the fuck up in his mind, because right now he was — _hello! —_ he was fucking Draco Malfoy! Right now! Who the fuck cared about what else was happening anywhere, any time?

“Potter,” he gasped, and Harry saw now his fist moving over it, collecting the aforementioned wetness at the tip and lathering it down the shaft, using it to his advantage. “ _Oh,_ fuck, Potter — Feels good — Feels _so good._ ”

“Yeah?” Harry breathed, surprised as he spoke at how dry his mouth and throat were. He grunted once more, reality of what he was doing really hitting him, partially sobering him up but mostly getting him off even quicker. He was fucking Draco Malfoy. _He_ was _fucking_ Draco bloody _Malfoy_!

Malfoy nodded, his cheek rubbing the wall as he did so, and whimpered back to him, “Yeah. I’m — I’m close, I might —”

“Do it,” Harry told him. “Do it when you can. I want to watch. ‘Want you to say my name when you do it.” He thought then, just for a moment, and then added, “And I want you to say thanks, when you do.”

Malfoy whined a solitary “ _Mhm!_ ” back to Harry, letting his mouth just afterwards drop open again, his eyes squeezing shut, his hands balling into fists wherever they were on whichever one of them. Harry’s own heart thundered as he felt Malfoy tighten around his dick, and he hoped that Malfoy would do as Harry requested for him, because he himself was _that close_ now, all he needed was one more —

“Potter!” Malfoy gasped. “P- Potter, please — _Oh!_ Harry, thank you, th- thank you — Harry —”

And Malfoy’s whole body shuddered against him as he came, and for Harry, it was watching, feeling it happen for Malfoy that did it. It was hearing it too, mostly, hearing his first name spill from Malfoy’s swollen lips felt akin to a prayer. 

Harry spilled inside of him without warning, grabbing him and holding him closer as he felt it, jaw dropping open. He kissed the back of Malfoy’s neck as he rode through it, sucking one small love-bite there, though nowhere near as prominent as the one that he would no doubt come to regret soon enough that was plastered as large as life on Malfoy’s throat. 

His orgasm felt like flying felt — better, even, and Harry didn’t think he’d ever achieve an orgasm better than the one he’d had when he lost his virginity, but here it was; in a dirty hate-fuck with Draco Malfoy in the bathroom of the nastiest pubs in Britain. 

He pulled out of him after a long while and allowed himself to watch his own cum drip out of Malfoy’s ass before he flopped against the wall next to him. They didn’t speak as they both caught their breath. 

Then, after Malfoy cast some (rather impressive, considering the inebriation) cleaning spells over the both of them, he finally spoke whilst pulling up his underwear. 

“You’re still a moronic bastard, Potter,” he said. It sounded as though he couldn’t even be bothered to add any bite to his tone.

Harry smiled dopily and didn’t hide it even when Malfoy looked at him. He told him, “And you’re still a stuck-up tosser, Malfoy,” and did up his jeans. 

Then they nodded at one another. 

Harry left about five minutes after Malfoy did, just to keep up some air of integrity and privacy, but still stared at their table all the way back to the bar.

“Two more shots, Aberforth,” he said. From behind him, he heard Pansy Parkinson enquiring about the large hickey that had suddenly found itself at home on Malfoy’s neck. Harry smiled at the barman weakly. “I reckon I need something a bit stronger than butterbeer now.”

*

Harry rolled over in his bed and groaned at how bright it was in their room, wanting to curse the fuck out of whoever thought it was a good idea to open the curtains at stupid o’clock in the morning. 

“Yeah, I see it,” Seamus was saying, pointing out of the window. 

“Seamus,” Harry groaned. He added no more than that; it was too damn early for sentences, and his head hurt like a bitch. 

“Seamus,” he heard then, and Harry’s eyes snapped open to see the blurry ceiling. He reached for his glasses as he heard the voice continue on with, “Could you — Could you close the curtains again, please?”

A short silence followed as Harry forced his glasses clumsily onto his face and sat straight up. 

Malfoy had already been looking at him. 

Gazing right at him, even as Seamus mumbled a response and let the darkness fall over the room once again. 

Even through the shadows, Harry could feel his eyes on him, especially as he said, to Harry far more than Seamus, “Thank you.”

Harry thought he could get used to hearing that. 


End file.
